Birthday

Every September I have a birthday!





My favorite way to spend my birthday is to schedule several different activities over the course of approximately one week. I did the same thing this year--going out to dinner with some friends, seeing a movie or a play with others--but spending one evening with the Escape Goat, Sly Little Minx, and Double D' Wicked proved to be damaging.





We met up at the 14 K. Lounge on the ill-fated Friday night, and everything seemed off to a good start. I suppose I should have taken the fact that the Minx was smoking like a chimney as a bad omen, but you never really recognize a bad omen until you examine a situation in retrospect.



It's as if the Escape Goat's expression of suspicious apprehension served as a premonition. Clearly, she is an intuitive beast...





The below photograph is one of the last known images of the Escape Goat smoking. She has since sworn off tobacco, but I doubt she can maintain such a stance. A hipster without a cigarette has the potential to become as confused as a horny bisexual in an orgy. Don't worry, Parliament Lights, you haven't lost a patron--she's just on hiatus.





And this picture is one of the last known images of the Minx sober. On this ill-fated night the Minx ended up stealing my birthday thunder and awakening with a psychological hangover the size of the Grand Canyon. Consequently, she has been on a bender ever since.





The Escape Goat hijacked my camera to take a few choice pictures. Below, she captures my true nature as I bark directives at Double D' Wicked while wagging my finger like Bill Clinton. None can wag a finger like Bill Clinton, but my finger wag is a great substitute for the original.






The Escape Goat took this shot of Double D' Wicked and we proclaimed it one of the hottest Double D' Wicked pictures in existence. I like to call this photo, Portrait of Double D' Wicked against Incan Motif Upholstery. This shot was taken right before Double D' Wicked became combative and unruly--I think she channeled the magic of the mighty Incas. She was all thinking she was in Machu Picchu and shit--spacing out and what not, visions of alpacas dancing in her head.





We exchanged salty glares several times throughout the course of the evening, and this was but the first of many...





Someone ordered shots; no doubt the guilty party is pictured below. I always think shots are gross, and that shot was no different. If you guessed--by its milky texture--that the shot featured with the Minx tasted like lactation, you guessed correctly. If only I had a time machine, I would go back and say to the Minx, "Hey Minx. You better not drink that sugary, booze infused elixir. You'll be sorry if you do." But--in the moment--she looks happy enough. Look upon the Minx and despair! MINX! You birthday-thunder-stealer!





The Escape Goat's expression spoke for everyone. That shot tasted like Allen Iverson rang his sweaty jock strap out in our glasses. And just maybe he did.





At some point, we decided to go back to the Minx's pimp pad, where we witnessed quite a spectacle. Dryfus, Pussy, and Ring Neck Pheasant awaited us. (Bah-Bah was suspiciously missing from Dryfus's harem of stuffed toys. However, Dryfus lay shamelessly unconscious on the linoleum with his penis exposed. He was covered in cotton and asbestos, bloated and gorged from a stuffed toy orgy. Since the Minx had been out so late he sought revenge in the form of a Roman holiday.) I don't know what kind of naughty business transpired in our absence, but the below picture looks a bit questionable. Judging by Ring Neck Pheasant's rug burns and Pussy's inability to make eye contact (accompanied with a mischievous grin), nothing you'd ever watch on the 700 Club. These two look like they are headed to a casting call for a Meet the Feebles sequel.






Ahhh...Once again, the familiar box of Ritz crackers atop the Minx's refrigerator. Like a beacon of light at the end of an otherwise dark tunnel it calls to me. The Minx's kitchen reminds me of an Andy Warhol painting--you have an aesthetically pleasing setting intercepted by a trademark image of pop culture: a can of Coke, a can of soup, Planters cashew's, a box of crackers, the Mayor's mom, etc...






DOUBLE D' WICKED: See this cup? That's about how much virgin's blood I pour into the bathtub each night when I bathe. It keeps me looking good, feeling great, and gives me a preternatural resistance to hangovers.
ESCAPE GOAT: Right on. You're like...Che Guevara in the face of a hangover.
DOUBLE D' WICKED: I dare you to eat one of those Ritz crackers.





ESCAPE GOAT: Hey...these Ritz Crackers aren't so bad. Do you have any curdled lemon yogurt for me to dip them in?





Lately, I have been referring to the Minx and Dryfus in combination as Pamela and Tommy Lee (or Kid Rock interchangeably). Speaking of the Devil, the Escape Goat forced Dryfus into compliance for this portrait. Clearly, she abandoned her purist philosophy in which the snapshot reigns supreme. She's like, "Okay, so you won't look at me? Let's just yank you up by that obnoxious tuft of hair, Kid Rock."





Double D' Wicked pauses to contemplate the uncanny resemblance between Dryfus and Tommy Lee versus Kid Rock, "Physically, he's more of a Kid Rock--you know--Kid Rock is a blonde, after all. But behaviorally. I don't know, Tommy Lee is pretty bad. You saw that video with Pamela and Tommy Lee, right? I didn't care for it--I prefer lesbian porn. Xena and Lucy? Hot. Willow and Tara? Hotter. That one episode of the Gilmore Girls, season 4, Episode 17 where Rory and Paris are on spring break and Paris kisses Rory, completely ruining her chances with that hot guy. Ha! Funny. She only did it to score some deal with a hot dude because dudes in the bar dig chicks kissing, but it all backfired. And then Paris had the nerve to ask Rory if she was a good kisser. Hottest."






Take note of the Minx's sad decline. She has gone from bad to worse and is full of MTV slogans. Below she shouts a composite, "Holla! Raise the Roof! The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on Fire! Holla!" Predictably, the only respectable picture of her taken this evening was her mug shot.





You can tell that the Escape Goat is wondering if the Minx is up to her favorite prank of serving rotten berries with the wine. She's probably using her tongue to dig at a piece of rancid berry stuck to the roof of her mouth like peanut butter. Ahhh...that joke never gets old, does it Minx?

Below, the Minx proudly splays her tainted popcorn shrimp toes.





Double D' Wicked's all like, "Gross, Minx! I didn't know you had popcorn shrimp for toes! Does anyone have ranch dressing? Come, Minx. Let me suckle."





While all of that nasty business was going on over in the corner with the Minx's toes, I was opening a present. Once again, the Minx demonstrated how well she knows my temperament by giving me a biography in photos of the Washington DC Zoo's panda cub, Tai Shan. Thanks, Minx! You shouldn't have! The Panda Cam...






Clearly, the Minx regretted letting Double D' Wicked skewer her toes and eat them with grilled vegetables. This was the beginning of the end. Her red-rimmed eyes were rolling up in her head Linda Blair style! Probably, the Minx should have taken herself to bed at this juncture, but she was determined to rage on...





Double D' Wicked opines, "Come on, Minx. What's your damage, Heather--you don't need toes to go out tonight. Think of all the things that don't have toes: jellyfish, Satan, seashells, honeysuckle, sand dollars, Voltron...if they all stopped what they were doing and demanded toes just think what a pisser we'd be in. The entire equilibrium of nature would cease to be. You'd be like...I don't know, a Star-Bellied Sneetch if you had toes. Who needs toes?"





Convinced she did not need toes to go out, the Minx tossed on a jacket and led the way. But first, we stopped by the Shit Fountain to pay our respects. Eventually, we ended up at Happy Village. As the name of said establishment implies, we're always happy at Happy Village until they tell us to come inside because they're shutting down the patio, and so on and so forth. Once that happens we always go elsewhere, because you find you are left standing shoulder to shoulder with lots of unhappy Happy Villagers who are disgruntled about having to come inside. But first some Happy...





We found ourselves with prime real estate beside a hedge that reminded me of the topiary labyrinth scene in The Shining where Danny and Mrs. Torrence are exploring the maze. Meanwhile, Mr. Torrence is inside slowly lapsing into an irretrievable state of madness.





The Escape Goat took over my camera at Happy Village, and I think this portrait of Adonis is some of her work, but I can't remember. You'll have to watch for her signature shots.






After the general sense of creepiness inherited by parking ourselves next to The Shining hedge subsided...





We were all in a positive humor.





The Escape Goat prompted everyone to smile for portraits. Here's Adonis...





Here's the Escape Goat...






Inevitably, 2AM loomed on the horizon, and we were not smiles for long. We knew the outdoor patio would soon shut down. A discussion began about where we should go next.





There were disagreements...





The Escape Goat was quick to suggest several choice venues, and alliances began to form.





Adonis found the heated debate amusing.





Finally, the stalky guy who resembles Barney Rubble began to stack the chairs and tell everyone that the Happy Village patio would be closing in twenty minutes. We splintered off into two camps of dispute: the Club Foot camp versus the Inner Town camp. One fraction preferred the route to Club Foot, while the second preferred Inner Town. Each camp elected a spokesperson to plead their case. Predictably, there were several pansies who refused to share allegiance to one camp or another. The Club Foot spokesperson was Prêt-à-Porter, and the Inner Town representative was the Sly Little Minx.





The Sly Little Minx seemed to be operating on a purely instinctive response. She could not articulate why she didn't want to go to Club Foot, but she was adamant that Inner Town was the best choice. Oh Premonition!





As you can see, Double D' Wicked was no ambassador of goodwill; she even became impatient when negotiations stalled. She still had the taste of popcorn shrimp in her mouth and was looking for a chaser.





At this point, it should be noted that the Minx would not be talked down from the ledge. She was partying with the stamina and determination of Britney Spears with divorce papers. The Minx was insistent, but she was losing ground. Her chief ally, Double D' Wicked, was a fair weather fan who primarily wanted a nicotine fix and cared only that the route to our next destination included a convenience store along the way. Poor Minx! The stubs that once were toes throbbed painfully.





Below, the Club Foot camp is closing in for the kill. You know your enemy is in its final throes when you can raise a palm and count off reasons on your left hand.





The Escape Goat called her bookie and started placing bets...our fate depended on the outcome.





Despite the tension, a compromise seemed imminent.





Prêt-à-Porter exhibited confidence in his position. Below he shares a laugh with Ray-Gun at the expense of his enemies.





Here he plays the spy, listening stealthily as Double D' Wicked and the Minx hatch a plot.





I love how Prêt-à-Porter is like, "You know I don't need to ask. Let me just slide my hand out here and rub the genie's bottle I keep in my pocket for occasions like this. Mmm-Hmm."





Recognizing that this debate would be too big for the Escape Goat's delicate sensibilities to close out--in a bold move--Prêt-à-Porter proclaimed that shutting down the Happy Village patio was a reindeer game, and that we would only find similar reindeer games at Inner Town. Ray-Gun looked on knowingly...





But the Minx staunchly defended Inner Town, maintaining that we would find no such reindeer games there.





We all realized that camp Club Foot had won the day, but the Minx refused to concede defeat. An exasperated Double D' Wicked tried to convince a drunken Minx that we were off to Club Foot, but after having consumed the Minx's toes earlier in the evening, Double D' Wicked had very little leverage.






Out of frustration, Prêt-à-Porter became disgruntled and shouted angrily at the Minx, "You were nothing before you met me! You were playing Barbies with Betty Finn! You were a Brownie, you were a Bluebird, you were a Girl Scout Cookie! I got you into a Remington Party! What's my thanks? It's on the hallway carpet. I get paid in puke! Monday morning, you're history. I'll tell everyone about tonight. Transfer to Washington. Transfer to Jefferson. No one at Westerburg's going to let you play their reindeer games."





"Yeah, I said reindeer games. I mean, you have antlers, snow, Frisbees, naked elves, booze, a Jacuzzi, Santa, "Sister Christian" playing on an eight track in the background, and lines of coke cut up on a mirror with a broken Gillette; what the fuck. Reindeer Games. That's what I said."






"Goddamit. He wouldn't know a reindeer if it bit him on the ass. After six years apprenticing at a taxidermist's in Racine, Wisconsin--if anyone would know a reindeer biting them on the ass--it's me. I stuffed fucking Dasher, Donder, Dancer, Prancer, Hans Blixen, Vixen, and that Fucking Rudolph. His balls were bigger than a Britney Spears comeback would be. So you can shove those reindeer games up your ass."





"Like I said, you have antlers, snow, Frisbees, naked elves, booze, a Jacuzzi, Santa, "Sister Christian" playing on an eight track in the background, one Minx testifying with a red hot poker of molten lava in her hands, and lines of coke cut up on a mirror with a broken Gillette; what the fuck. Reindeer Games. I rest my case."





"Yeah. Reindeer games. It's indisputable."





With that, it was decided that we would go to Club Foot. Having finally admitted defeat, the Minx was inconsolable...





Prêt-à-Porter was a shameless victor. His lewd gestures were a bit off sides. But--as events unfolded--the Minx would have her revenge.





But he made nice in the end and gave the Minx a peck on the cheek for good measure. Still a bit frosty, the Minx dryly accepted his olive branch. Amends made, we proceeded to Club Foot. It was so crowded that we decided to return to the Minx's place. The Minx was out of wine, so I decided to walk to the store with Pret au Porte for drinks while everyone else headed back to the Minx's. But in the interim, drama transpired at Club Foot!





So insipid was the drama, that we ended up stranded and sour on the corner of Division and Paulina. We couldn't reach anyone over the phone, and when we finally did we were met with panic and inaduible screams. We ended up coordinating a rendezvous at Ray-Gun's. We caught a cab, and as we were rolling down the street we approached a red light. Upon stopping at the light, we encountered a rare stroke of good fortune--Adonis and Ray-Gun slinking along the curb preparing to cross the street. We called to them and they jumped in our cab.





Once we got to Ray-Gun's, we asked Adonis to give us an account of the drama that transpired while we were stranded with a case of Miller Light on the corner of Division and Paulina. In his typically cryptic fashion he proclaimed, "I was a witness to many things, but nothing at all. Life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone. I hear you call my name and it feels like home."





Ray-Gun was equally perplexed. Drama had transpired and no one could bare witness accurately! In the melee, everything was confusing--there were sirens, and an ambulance. Prêt-à-Porter was understandably mortified that we could get no coherent explanation. We were at a loss.





Suddenly, the timely arrival of Buckles and the Escape Goat. More witnesses. Perhaps they could shed light on the evening's events? I love how Buckles skips up the stairs like he's auditioning for the Rockettes, "Hi-De-Ho, Neighbor!"





Meanwhile, a notably crestfallen and defeated Escape Goat trudges along with nothing more than one shred of dignity which was--fortunately--small enough to be transported in her watch pocket. I love her signature look of bedraggled defeat. She's like, "I'd rather be home right now, but I mean. I guess you were incubated, or hatched, or cloned--or whatever process germinated you--thirty years ago to this day, so I felt obligated to come over and not inflict Ray-Gun with your presence solo, and all. Don't mind me. Lentils anyone?"





We forced Adonis to give us an account of the events that transpired in our absence. He finally divulged the source of the drama. 911 was called and the EMT was dispatched on the Minx's behalf! After an evening of walking around on bloody nubbins, she needed an emergency prosthetic toe fitting! All Minx fans, mourn the loss of her sensual "popcorn shrimp toes." The paramedic was quoted as saying, "The assailant gnawed your digits clean off--I've never seen such damage." You have Double D' Wicked to thank. She is still picking her teeth with a straight razor.





No doubt, you will be pleased to learn that the Minx is making a speedy recover (although she cannot walk without the aid of a man servant). He crawls in front of her with his right arm extended, serving as a cane. He also catches treats in his mouth, kind of like Dryfus--only Dryfus never misses. Of course, Double D' Wicked does not regret having consumed the Minx's unique and beautiful toes. Those toes were her bread and butter--her claim to fame.





If you see her in public, it is best to not mention the incident. Double D' Wicked, on the other hand, is proud of her actions and will freely welcome a conversation on the matter. Just yesterday, she was heard to remark, "It serves her right. Flashing those toes. Everyone knows I have a shrimp fetish. It's my weakness. Besides, she can grow them back. I mean, I dabble in the culinary arts--I should know--you can popcorn anything: popcorn fingers, popcorn spleen, popcorn testicles. And then there's just regular old popcorn. Jiffy Pop and shit. I don't know what everybody's whining about. She should just popcorn her whole foot and call it a day. All you need is batter and a Fry Daddy. The Weasel's got a Fry Daddy. Tell her to borrow the Weasel's Fry Daddy and I'll slap some Crisco on that shit--she won't feel a thing. Not a thing. What? Don't look at me like that. I'd do it again. I'm hooked on a feeling..."





Don't hassle the Hoff.





Of course, Prêt-à-Porter expressed no sympathy over the 911 call. He only cracked open another beer and gravely opined, "I knew that was going to happen. Eventually." When asked how he came to possess such prophetic insight he gladly elaborated...





"Reindeer games."